Viggo wasn't drunk; not in the least. It took more than a couple of shots of scotch to get him tipsy enough to mistake Sean for someone else, especially with that little rub across his mouth. Viggo's eyes fixated on that mouth for a moment, staring at the lips and at the hints of stubble that was peeking through the skin, letting his eyes follow the lines of Sean's face down to the strong chin, to the long neck that was caught in his Awards' best. White shirt, black tie, black jacket. Sean looked beautiful.
There were new lines, too. Lines around his mouth, around his eyes, the skin of his cheeks a little looser. Signs of aging, but Viggo preferred that to the false smoothness of Hollywood, where a forty-year-old tried their best to erase their years of living and their decades of experience to look like a 'sweet young thing'. Sean's life story was written on his face, on the strong neck, on the darkened skin of the back of his hands. Viggo could paint it all, write it all, if he had the time to sit Sean down to look. He would take in every single inch, every tiny line, and Viggo would memorise it, capture it, and spin a thousand stories of where it had come from.
There were too many lines from frowning, he thought, head tilted to the side, absolutely silent and still. That was alright, because this was Sean, no matter what he said, and Sean knew that Viggo had a habit of trailing off into his own head in the middle of a conversation, in the middle of a damn sentence. Right now his head was trailing onto Sean's face, to take in the lines, and he smiled a little himself because he could tell that there were lines for smiling too, and those were always beautiful.
"You look like a friend that I'm waiting for," Viggo said, and he barely noticed that he was speaking at all. The words seemed to flow from him, quietly murmured, his lips barely moving. He raised a hand, and traced the air in front of Sean's lips, then up to his eyes, then to his hair. Inhale, exhale, and his smile was just lopsided, his head tilted to the side as he watched Sean.
Then he broke his gaze, digging into his pockets for change. He smacked four-fifty onto the table, sliding it over, and sat himself onto a bar stool. He picked at his nails a little, tugging and tugging at his own black suit jacket. His little brother had dressed him today, because Viggo wasn't allowed to go out to a ceremony like the Oscars and dress himself.
"I've been counting, you know," he said, almost idly, his voice barely loud enough to be heard by Sean. "Shades, I mean. On my friend's hair. There are fifty-three, and I've started naming them. I've a handful of names, like, mm- caramel-if-you-put-gold-flakes-in-it-but-why-would-you-do-that-because-it-spoils-the-caramel, gold-burned-by-candlelight-on-one-side, well-worn-gold-bracelet-faded-by-sweat-and-years-and-love. The names are kind of long."
He lifted his head, blue eyes peeking through dark lashes to peer at Sean. "It's funny, because I counted your shades, and there are fifty-three too. Fifty-three, and three more of gray, six more of silver." His lips suddenly quirked up, a little too wide, because- it's funny.
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There were new lines, too. Lines around his mouth, around his eyes, the skin of his cheeks a little looser. Signs of aging, but Viggo preferred that to the false smoothness of Hollywood, where a forty-year-old tried their best to erase their years of living and their decades of experience to look like a 'sweet young thing'. Sean's life story was written on his face, on the strong neck, on the darkened skin of the back of his hands. Viggo could paint it all, write it all, if he had the time to sit Sean down to look. He would take in every single inch, every tiny line, and Viggo would memorise it, capture it, and spin a thousand stories of where it had come from.
There were too many lines from frowning, he thought, head tilted to the side, absolutely silent and still. That was alright, because this was Sean, no matter what he said, and Sean knew that Viggo had a habit of trailing off into his own head in the middle of a conversation, in the middle of a damn sentence. Right now his head was trailing onto Sean's face, to take in the lines, and he smiled a little himself because he could tell that there were lines for smiling too, and those were always beautiful.
"You look like a friend that I'm waiting for," Viggo said, and he barely noticed that he was speaking at all. The words seemed to flow from him, quietly murmured, his lips barely moving. He raised a hand, and traced the air in front of Sean's lips, then up to his eyes, then to his hair. Inhale, exhale, and his smile was just lopsided, his head tilted to the side as he watched Sean.
Then he broke his gaze, digging into his pockets for change. He smacked four-fifty onto the table, sliding it over, and sat himself onto a bar stool. He picked at his nails a little, tugging and tugging at his own black suit jacket. His little brother had dressed him today, because Viggo wasn't allowed to go out to a ceremony like the Oscars and dress himself.
"I've been counting, you know," he said, almost idly, his voice barely loud enough to be heard by Sean. "Shades, I mean. On my friend's hair. There are fifty-three, and I've started naming them. I've a handful of names, like, mm- caramel-if-you-put-gold-flakes-in-it-but-why-would-you-do-that-because-it-spoils-the-caramel, gold-burned-by-candlelight-on-one-side, well-worn-gold-bracelet-faded-by-sweat-and-years-and-love. The names are kind of long."
He lifted his head, blue eyes peeking through dark lashes to peer at Sean. "It's funny, because I counted your shades, and there are fifty-three too. Fifty-three, and three more of gray, six more of silver." His lips suddenly quirked up, a little too wide, because- it's funny.
"Is it the British sun's fault?"